


seven conversations about one thing

by nagia



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Sandman
Genre: Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the smallest, least important of mortals will experience the seven great constants; Earth's Mightiest Heroes are no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. vii.

Clint Barton watches himself help Loki escape a collapsing research campus and almost doesn't believe it's happening. BIt's just plain surreal. He's been locked out of the loop by his own body, only to watch it act in ways that _aren't him_ , goddamnit, _aren't him and never could be_.

He thinks: _This is it. I've finally cracked._

"Yes," says the voice of a young girl who wasn't there a minute ago.

Clint jumps, then turns around.

The speaker smiles and waves with her fingers. From anyone else, it'd be awkward, but she's got a strange aura of _friendly_ and _dangerous_. It makes the finger wave look like her best possible way of saying hello.

She has mismatched eyes and one hand holds an empty leash. Boat lights, he thinks, and she winks and the hair on one side of her head grows while the hair on the other side disappears.

"But you knew that already. Are you a sidewalk crack or a window crack?"

Clint stares. "You want to try that one again?"

"What kind of cracked? Sidewalk or window?"

"I don't know," he tells her, because it's the honest answer and she's not making a lick of goddamn sense.

"If you're a sidewalk, you'll stay that way forever," the girl says. She nods once, and blue smoke swirls through the air, spelling words he can't read. "But windows get fixed."

"Usually we _replace_ windows when we fix them."

Which is, he realizes with a dawning horror as he watches himself help Loki out of a car, exactly what happened.

She only smiles. "Are you a sidewalk or a window? You'd better pick one. Or maybe both."

Broken forever, or broken and replaced?

"Not great options," he says. "I don't want to be replaced."

"You can be put back," the girl says. She traces a line in the air, and fish and feathers dance after her finger.

"Put back cracked?"

The girl looks a little sad as she tells him, "Mr. Mirror, you were already cracked."

"It was just a crack I could live with."

She nods excitedly. "Thank you for listening. I have to go find Barnabas now."

"Tell Barnabas I said hi."

She smiles over her shoulder, and says, "I will! I'll tell him you said—" and then she makes a noise that sounds exactly like glass breaking.

And then she's gone.

And Clint is alone with himself, Loki, and whatever Loki is trying to do.


	2. vi.

When Thor was a child, he once snuck into the hall where Loki studied magic. Naturally, the tutor had placed defenses against such a thing. One defense was an abundance of copper mirrors, shaped oddly or at awkward angles. The mirros had reflected his face back to him — only misshapen, distorted, _wrong_.

Watching Loki stab Coulson from behind is like that. He sees Loki in front of Coulson. Then, like a distorted face suddenly surfacing in a warped mirror, he sees Loki behind Coulson.

The scepter's sharp head slides in. Steady and easy; Coulson's flesh yields to the metal as no Asgardian's could.

The warped mirror is simple glass again. Someone got close enough to Loki to inflit careful, curving cuts along his cheeks and the backs of his hands.

Loki looks up. Thor sees someone else reflected in Loki's eyes.


	3. v.

Tony wants a lot of things out of life, but they all boil down pretty easily. He tries not to think about the big wants, the wants that stay; it's easier to focus on the little wants.

Like right now.

Right now, he wants Pepper to answer the phone.

But she doesn't, and the part of him that has time wonders why. He hopes she's safe.

The call goes through, but Pepper's photo has changed. Her eyes are wrong.

If he can't talk to her, at least he can give her _safe_. Until the next world crisis.

Her eyes are gold and her smile is sharp, knowing.

He feels himself falling. The suit is losing power.

 _You were always so certain_ , Pepper tells him. _Always going somewhere, even if you didn't know where you were going._

The systems fade one by one. He watches the lights flicker and die, and feels something in the center of his chest begin to slow. He imagines he can hear the soft whir of a dying machine — the whistling murmur of his heart as it stops.

He knows where he's going. He knows where he'd rather be.

If he has to pass out, he wants to wake up.

His eyes drift closed.

Someone screams.

He jerks awake.


	4. iv.

Bruce ducks out of the building — low doors, high ceilings; right up there with punkah fans, they're the best low-tech way to beat the heat. Also the best way to hit himself in the head — and looks at the tangled knot of people. Not for the first time, he thinks: _If I can take this, I can take anything_.

He wends his way through the streets. People give him as wide a berth as they can, but the press of shoulder or arm against his and the weight of their gazes crushes him anyway. It's purely psychological. He knows. He feels claustrophobic anyway, no matter the sun on the top of his head or the noises of traffic, motorized and non.

Bruce turns into a sparser alley, just to get away from the crowd for a little while. A few children stop their game of kick-the-ancient-ball to look quizically at him, whilea chai-wallah offers a tiny clay cup. He's built like a tree, thick and sturdy but a little ragged around the edges, like an oft-read book. His beard and hair and eyebrows are the same shade of muddy red-brown, though his hair and beard are shot through with golden brown.

Bruce looks at the children, then at the misshapen cup the chai-wallah is offering him.

The chai-wallah smiles. His teeth are white and uniform, perfect as rows of shell casings.

Bruce drops a couple of crinkled bills into the man's cashbox and accepts the cup. He takes a sip, then drains the rest and tries not to make any ruder faces than the one he just did.

"A little heavy on the anise," he explains. Behind him, the street children burst into giggles and go back to playing with their ancient ball.

"Not so much anise in the Karha for the next pot. I'll make a note of it." The vendor grins again, rubs his hand against the back of his neck.

Bruce gestures to the wall. "May I sit?"

The chai-wallah grins again and hefts a teapot.

Bruce drops another pair of bills into the cashbox, accepts his penance, and settles in. After another sip, he asks, "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No," the chai-wallah laughs. "I'm afraid I've wandered very far away from where I _should_ be."

"Like a busier street?" Bruce asks, even though he knows the vendor must be talking about something weightier. "The chai business can't be good here."

"It's empty now, but every few hours, they all come marching out. Wait here long enough and you'll see."

Bruce looks where the vendor points and sees a placard with a Stark Industries logo in the window. Odd; he's pretty sure Stark Industries, while global, uses a primarily American workforce. Something about Howard Stark's patriotism and wanting to keep jobs in the USA.

The vendor smiles again, but he's looking at Bruce from the corner of his eye. Looking knowingly. Then he looks back to the tiny office and says. "That used to be a clinic. Not much of a clinic, but it was all this neighborhood had."

"Now it's... what, tech support? Isn't that what all the big businesses farm out here?"

The vendor shrugs. "Don't know what they do. There's a new clinic just around the corner. It was a little snackshop, fifteen years back. Masala chai and lassi and little candies. Old clinic, new office. Old shop, new clinic. That's the important thing."

"Change? Growth?"

"No," says the vendor. He looks down at his cart full of misshapen clay cups — probably hand-thrown — and pots of bad tea. "Giving back."

"Giving back?"

"They say you're a doctor. You're not in any clinic, and you work for whatever they can pay you. Stark took the old clinic, so he gave us back a new one."

"Where's the new sweetshop?"

But the vendor shakes his head. "No, no, no. That's a side-track. Take away, give back, or try to. Not everyone can."

Bruce looks down at the cart, too. Then he looks back up and asks, "You pay the neighborhood kids to make these, don't you?"

"No," says the vendor. "I throw them myself. You think I should?"

But Bruce never gets to answer. The ancient ball bounces into the cart, amidst excited shouting, and the vendor just looks ruefully at the sky.

"Never can get far enough from where I should be," the vendor says, and begins to wheel his cart away.


End file.
